


Pilgrimage

by Rosie_Rues



Series: The Rising Storm [27]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1981, Chaucer, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-01
Updated: 2011-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosie_Rues/pseuds/Rosie_Rues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would be very quiet, up in the snow-shrouded hills. December, 1981 - Remus, afterwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **[](http://expositionary.livejournal.com/profile)[**expositionary**](http://expositionary.livejournal.com/) and [](http://mizzmarvel.livejournal.com/profile)[**mizzmarvel**](http://mizzmarvel.livejournal.com/) , thank you.**

  
_And if ther be any thyng that displese hem, I preye hem also that they arrette it to the defaute of myn unkonnynge, and nat to my wyl  
– _Chaucer’s Retraction

In December 1981, on the morning after the full moon, the third Sunday in Advent, Remus found himself in the Chapel of Our Lady Undercroft below Canterbury Cathedral. He wasn’t quite sure how he had got here or what else had happened since the click of the lock in the cage door at dawn. Time had been like that for a long time now, elastic and unpredictable, never enough, or too slow to bear.

Yet here he was, alone in the quiet of the vault. Chill light spilled down into the crypt but did not touch him.

In the cathedral above a service was taking place. He could hear the occasional roar of shuffling feet and the uncanny, sweet echo of the choristers.

He had his wand and his wallet. He could apparate back to London, back to their- his flat.

He hurt. Each time the wolf tore him open and restored him the old scars returned. Unmade, remade, he was still less than whole.

It was not as bad as the last moon, he supposed, and worse than the next would be. At least this time he had not woken to Alastor Moody’s grave, newly old face and the news of the Longbottoms’ deaths.

Who was left to lose?

His breath formed clouds in the shadows.

Above him the service ended.

Remus closed his shaking hands around his knees. His fingers seemed very white in the darkness. He had never replaced the gloves he had lost last winter, the ones knitted for him by-

It was very cold.

Perhaps, if he just stayed here in the corner, as quiet as a mouse (not a rat), nobody would notice him.

He waited after the thought, expecting someone to rage at him.

His shirt was stuck to his back, the faint tug keeping him away from the cold comfort of his thoughts. Another scar, then.

Eventually there was a step on the stair and the sound of a young, merry voice caroling lightly, “ _Gaudete! Gaudete!_ ”

Remus couldn’t bring himself to smile at the irony. Instead he stood, slow and stiff, and made his way out of the cathedral.

It was snowing heavily, the ancient roofs already white. Remus shoved his hands into his pockets and ambled out into the precincts of the cathedral. The giftshop was closed, but he lingered a few moments to look in the dark windows at mugs and tea towels lettered with scraps of Middle English.

The sky was grey and heavy above him, and it was beginning to get dark. The snow was getting thicker. Silently, Remus made his way through the storm in search of somewhere to stay the night.

  
 _in helle is no solas ne no freendshipe –_ The Parson’s Tale

He was the only guest in the youth hostel, and they gave him a room to himself. He lay awake, aware of the empty beds around him, as the wind rose, hurling snow at the windows. Just after midnight, the landlady knocked on his door and invited him to join the family in the kitchen. They huddled around the stove with the radio crackling on the worktop.

The coldest night of the century, said the man in London, BBC-voice making it unremarkable.

Through the next day the gales rose, though the snow stopped. As the cold lifted the radio told of floods coming off the hills and the sea rising in the west, washing the coast with cold reproach.

Mists crept through the city, rolling off the Downs. Remus, who could have Apparated away, lingered in the kitchen, listening to the talk roll over and around him, like the gale.

That night he slept, though he woke too often, turning to speak to an empty bed.

  
 _Ne nevere in al thy lif ne shaltou speke.  
Thus shal men on a traytour been awreke;  
Thou and thyn ofspryng evere shul be blake,  
Ne nevere sweete noyse shul ye make,  
But evere crie agayn tempest and rayn_  
\- The Manciple’s Tale

The next day the storm began to abate, so Remus paid his dues, and wandered into the town. It was snowing again, slow, wet flakes from a dull sky.

He did not know where to go.

The cathedral tower loomed over him, so he returned, although he was no pilgrim. No saint, however cantankerous, could unweave the past.

He was not penitent, either. He, of them all, had been absolved. Living, he was proven innocent.

He had missed the moment when he could have saved them all. It had passed, swift and sly, whilst he had been too busy living, laughing, loving.

The shops, decked out in red and gold, did not appeal.

For a while, he wandered through the shadow of the cathedral. In a garden in the precincts, a snowman stood, draped in a choirboy’s purple cassock. Remus imagined the outraged echo of a housemaster’s voice, and hurried on.

He hurt, still smarting from the moon. The cold made the breath come shallow in his lungs.

At last, he turned into the shop. He could buy a postcard; send it to-

His mind was blank.

Hagrid. Yes, Hagrid would like a postcard, though possibly a less genteel one than these views of old stone amongst summer flowers.

They had always bought a postcard, wherever the Order sent them. _To make it seem like a holiday_ \- that had been the phrase.

There was no one else in the shop - just him and the volunteer behind the till, who was chewing her pen and squinting down at her Christmas cards. As Remus wandered along the aisles, his fingers throbbing in the sudden warmth, she began to peer at him suspiciously.

He looked down at the postcard, feeling obscurely guilty. He always thought that the longer he stayed in a shop, the more money he was obliged to spend there.

 _What the fuck do they care?_ had always been the response. _They still get paid bugger all. Hurry up, Moony._

He stumbled to the stand of books at the end of the shop and pulled one off at random. He could feel the hard weight of it in his hand but couldn’t see the cover.

It wasn’t until he had paid, and rushed back out into the cold, that he fumbled it out of the bag to see what he had bought.

The cover showed hills, green under a summer sky. It was a walking guide, for the Pilgrim’s Way.

Snow fell onto the glossy cover, melting into a wet blister.

The Pilgrim’s Way began at Winchester and ended here, he knew that much.

It would be very quiet, up in the snow-shrouded hills.

It was a bloody stupid idea.

In a teashop with lace tablecloths, he began to flick through the book, letting the names of villages and rivers sink into the quiet spaces of his mind. Stour, Medway, Darent, Mole, Wey. Kent, Surrey, Hampshire.

He was a wizard, wasn’t he? The cold need not touch him.

Yet, in part, it was the cold that drew him. There, away from the city streets and the people who thronged them, the snow would stay white until it melted. Cruel, but clean.

He warmed his fingers on the cup, and sipped the last, cooling dregs of Earl Grey.

It was madness.

He had empty years before him in which to be sane.

The day was already growing grey. He should wait another night and set out in the morning.

Instead, he began to limp his way towards the Westgate. Henry II had passed this way, his guidebook told him, barefoot and weeping, to seek atonement for the murder of a good man.

He would be glad to turn his back on Canterbury.

Past the church of St Dunstan, patron of the blind, and now the road rose before him.

Ahead of him, through the snow, he could just see the grey bulk of the Downs, looming like shadows.

His steps were short. If he stretched too far, he pulled at the tears on his thighs, legacy of the midwinter moon.

This was madness.

If he looked back, would he see blood in his footprints, proclaiming guilt?

He did not look back.

By the time he reached the top of the hill the streetlights were glowing orange. The falling snow, invisible elsewhere, shone like flames around them. The whole world seemed hushed with it.

He could turn back to the city to find a hotel. He could Apparate home. He could walk on through the night.

Instead, he traced his way through the houses. What he had thought from a distance to be a church, he discovered to be the remains of a leper hospital. Smiling at the irony, he spelled the chapel open and settled down on a pew, murmuring a warming charm.

It was very quiet behind the solid walls. He hesitated for a moment, before he shrugged and helped himself to a candle. He was, after all, a pilgrim, of sorts, and he didn’t enjoy the dark very much these days.

The floor was sloped and uneven. He sat awake long enough to soften the base of the candle and stick it firmly upright on the rough stone. Then he rolled himself into his coat, and slept.

 __

His sleightes and his infinite falsnesse  
Ther koude no man writen, as I gesse,  
Though that he myghte lyve a thousand yeer.  
In al this world of falshede nis his peer  
\- The Canon’s Yeoman’s Tale

In the churchyard was a well dedicated to the Black Prince. Remus stood in front of it, gazing down at the frozen, murky water, and felt something bitter rise through him.

It frightened him.

He had been quiet so long, since before Halloween, before the war, before Hogwarts, ever since a summer night so long ago he remembered only the nightmares afterwards when the moon bled black.

Why was he angry now, in a silent country churchyard, as dawn whispered behind him?

He stumbled back onto the road, pressing uphill. It was no longer snowing, though the ground was covered. Each step was an effort, and by the time he reached the hilltop the sun was high in the sky.

He was hungry.

Miles from anywhere, up to his knees in snow, and with nothing to eat. Stupid.

Then again, he was the man who had trusted Sirius Black.

Now he had thought the name, he could not take it back.

He had trusted Sirius Black. Trusted him, and reassured those who doubted. After all, who knew him better?

So they had doubted him instead, and they had died: Dorcas Meadowes, Benjy Fenwick, Edgar Bones, Marlene McKinnon, Caradoc Dearborn, Gideon and Fabian Prewett, James and Lily Potter, Peter Pettigrew, Frank and Alice Longbottom.

Peter had said once that he didn’t think any of them would survive the war. James had laughed and clapped him on the back - _Don’t be daft, Wormtail_. Sirius had rolled his eyes and snapped, _So?_ Lily had changed the subject.

And Remus had thought that Peter was the only one who _would_ survive.

He didn’t know where the path was beneath the snow. He just fell and scrambled through it, tears cold and bitter on his lips, crashing into trees.

When he fell onto the lane, his palms were bloody. He pressed them into the snow, choking.

They were all gone.

Yet he was, alone in the snow, whole, if not hale.

His fingers hurt, a slow numbing pain. He should give up – Apparate back to London, to a flat still heaped with Sirius Black’s belongings.

Or he could just lie here. The snow in the lane was unbroken – no one would find him.

It was tempting, but he knew he would not do it. The wolf had not, despite his expectations, torn his heart out at the last moon.

He shoved to his feet, and began to stumble down towards the village. To his dismay, there was no church, but he found the pub and settled into a corner with a glass of lemonade, trying not to attract too much attention from the elderly men perched around the bar.

They were talking about the war, and, for a wild, disorientating moment, he thought they meant his war. Then he remembered that this was the Muggle world, and no one knew the extent of his failure.

The _Daily Prophet_ had printed a final list of the dead. His name had been on it. No one had written in to correct them.

He thought he understood. It was tidier that way.

At last orders, he cast a Disillusionment Charm and curled into his corner as the old men wandered, grumbling, into the cold. The landlord dimmed the lights behind them.

Remus heard the creak of the stairs and turned to gaze out of the window. The world outside was white. It reminded him of Hogwarts, of mornings after the moon, full of secret exultation at the game they had played.

  
 _Or for she whitnesse hadde of honestee  
And grene of conscience, and of good fame  
The soote savour, lilie was hir name._  
\- The Second Nun’s Tale

The next day he woke early, before the light. He raided the pub kitchen for food, stuffing sandwiches into the big pockets of his coat. Then he left a fiver on the counter and slipped out into the morning.

The wind was high again. There had obviously been a scattering of snow overnight, for the footprints in the road were half-filled. The sky was still dim, but there was enough light to see his way, climbing through woodland towards the railway.

It had snowed like this last year, though not so heavily. He had been stuck in the flat, laid low with a curse only the moon would reverse, when Lily had descended on him, the baby trussed in a sling on her back, so well wrapped Remus had only been able to see the tip of his nose and sleepy green eyes.

She shouldn’t have been there, not alone, and he had told her so.

She had snorted and ordered him out.

Walking around Green Park, she had said, eyeing him from below her hat, _Sirius not looking after you?_

 _No,_ Remus had replied, hunching his shoulders. _Lily, go home._

 _We’re going into hiding,_ she had said. _I don’t know for how long. I want Harry to see snow. Shall I set James on him?_

 _It won’t help,_ Remus had said and tossed a handful of snow at her, half-hearted.

 _It can’t harm, either,_ she had snapped.

Remus had shrugged.

Her snowball had hit him square in the face, and her peal of laughter had made baby Harry rouse and gurgle at them.

He had so many memories of her laughing, at her wedding, dancing in James’ arms, bright with joy; at Gideon and Fabian, who had always tried to enliven Order meetings; as barely more than a child, when her first Cheering Charm worked perfectly.

He also remembered Sirius swinging on her, snarling, _You’re why, alright? Because you’re worth a thousand Narcissas, and they want a world where nobody would even see that. So, leave me alone, alright, Evans?_

It had always been a competition, though Remus hadn’t realised it then. Only the strong survived.

He supposed that meant he was the strongest of them all.

The thought made him laugh and hurry his step down into the next village for lunch.

He made good time that afternoon and ended his day in the little church of St Laurence on the banks of the River Stour. He could hear the river in his sleep that night, sighing steadily through his dreams.

  
 _Allas, ye lordes, many a fals flatour  
Is in youre courtes, and many a losengeour,  
That plesen yow wel moore, by my feith,  
Than he that soothfastnesse unto yow seith._  
-The Nun’s Priest’s Tale

The next day the path led him along the edge of woodland. The signs by the path called it a forest, though it did not suit his idea of one. It was too tame and too open. No monsters lurked beneath the dark conifers and bare chestnuts.

He did not count himself as a monster. They had given him that much.

A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he turned in time to see a deer bounding away, its antlers lifted like praying hands. His breath caught in his throat, and it was a while before he made himself think, _Too small, too dark, too quick._

He had been walking through snow for three days. No one had yet thrown a snowball at him, or scrubbed his face in a drift, or stolen his scarf to drape around a Hagrid-sized snowman. It almost didn’t feel like winter at all.

In their first year, James, who had never encountered lasting snow before, had gleefully abandoned Quidditch in favour of skiing. They had inexpertly transfigured themselves skis from a collection of mops and brooms pinched from Filch’s cupboard.

A small slope wouldn’t do, James had explained firmly. They needed momentum. So they had climbed to the top of the hill behind the castle, above the young Whomping Willow and Hufflepuff’s snow sculpture gallery.

Remus had looked down at the bits of wood strapped to his feet and said, doubtfully, _Are you sure this is a good idea?_

 _It’s a bloody stupid idea,_ Sirius had said. It had been the time when he still only spoke to them on good days.

James had glared at him, eyes narrowed behind his glasses. _Chicken, Black?_

 _No,_ Sirius had snarled back and pushed off.

He had headed down the slope with increasing speed, arms wheeling. James had whooped and gone after him, and Remus, who had already worked out it would end in disaster, had followed.

Behind him, Peter had suddenly howled, _Jaaaaames! How do I steer!_

Meanwhile, James and Sirius had discovered that steering was not the only problem with homemade skis.

 _I’m going to hit the Willow! Stop, you bastard things! Impedimentaaaaargh!_

Peter had come sliding past, legs in the air and whooping with laughter.

Remus had closed his eyes and abandoned himself to fate.

In the aftermath, James had sported his sling like a badge of honour. Sirius’ black eye had lasted weeks, until Remus caught him in the bathroom with a pot of ink, his tongue caught between his teeth as he painted the bruise on.

He was smiling as he came out of the woodland and began to scramble down the hillside towards the farm huddled in the lee of the hill.

The sight of a stranger brought the farmer’s wife out. She shook her head at his stumbled explanation and marched him into her kitchen to warm up. Despite his protests, she fed him and scolded him for recklessness. Remus, terrified he might be undone by a stranger’s kindness, bolted when she went to fill the kettle.

He went down the lane at a run, his feet skidding, and came out in a wider road. It had been salted, and it crunched beneath his feet as he crossed over and followed the path across the slopes of the hill towards another church and the houses around it.

James would probably think he was mad, too. Of course, that probably wouldn’t stop him from coming along.

Except that James was dead, and hadn’t trusted him.

After he was bitten, his family had stopped going to church. It seemed a shame. He would have liked to have denounced religion now, when the gesture might have helped. It didn’t seem quite fair to curse a god he didn’t believe in.

Yet it seemed too cruel that mere, random chance had led him here. There should have been a reason why he, who had least of them all to lose, should be the only one to live. If it was foreordained, then someone, somewhere, bore the guilt and shame of it.

Someone other than him.

He could almost feel James clouting him for that; almost hear him boom, _You daft wanker, Moony._

There were no ghosts, though, save those he created from his own memories.

The sky was greying towards dusk, and the nearest building was a hotel that looked well beyond his means. There was a church tower ahead of him and a gleam of water.

The church by the lake, when he reached it, turned out to be a ruin. Its roof had collapsed, bringing the walls down with it. The tower still stood, but Remus eyed it uneasily, unsure of its stability.

A quick wander around the churchyard, however, revealed nothing that would offer more shelter, save for a large, ancient tomb on which he stubbed his toe. Some conscientious soul had walled up the remaining entrance into the tower and side-chapel. Remus settled into the shelter of the west wall, and turned all his attention to constructing some sort of charm to keep the cold out.

He finished the last of the bread from the pub and dug out his guidebook to find out where he could buy food tomorrow. The book was far more forthcoming on church architecture than corner shops, but he managed to glean that he would pass above a village. He also learnt that the monument he had tripped over in the churchyard was for Richard Plantagenet, the teenage son of Richard III, who had fled his dangerous inheritance to live out his days here, as a bricklayer.

Remus snapped the book shut and thought seriously about going home.

The ghosts there were just more obvious.

There was fog gathering over the frozen lake, as grey as smoke, making the ice seem dark. It made him think of cold seas and dark rock.

He forced the thought away and gazed up, trying to see through the clouds to the moon, constant and unrelenting.

All that showed was a faint and distant glow.

  
 _I wol biwaille in manere of tragedie  
The harm of hem that stoode in heigh degree,  
And fillen so, that ther nas no remedie  
To brynge hem out of hir adversitee._  
\- The Monk’s Tale

The dawn woke him, and he was in the village of Westwell by mid-morning. It wasn’t until he stepped into the little shop that he suddenly became aware of how grubby he was, pungent and unshaven.

The women chatting by the till fell silent as he came in and watched him, birdlike, as he fumbled along the shelves for a loaf of bread and a paper.

As he left, clutching the thin, striped carrier bag tightly, one of them laughed, a deep, husky sound that reminded him of Alice Longbottom.

He carried the sound with him as he climbed back to the crest of the hill. He kept forgetting that Frank and Alice were gone too. The other four were a constant emptiness, but every time he remembered about Frank and Alice it was a new shock.

The last time he saw Alice – no, not the last time, not _afterwards_ , but the time before – that time, she had been yelling at Dumbledore. She had had a fag in her hand, and was trailing smoke as she gestured, reminding Remus, even through the numbness of loss, of an indignant dragon.

 _Damn it, Albus, I promised Lily! We promised each other. The war’s over, and I want Harry!_

Dumbledore had murmured something soothing.

Alice had snorted. _Family? That shrivelled up old prune? You said the Order was_ family _, remember? I told Lily – I told her that if anything happened, I would- I would-_

She had swallowed, clenching her fingers. Dumbledore, without his usual twinkle, had said, _There are good reasons, Alice. Not all of Voldemort’s supporters have been found._

 _Then don’t leave him defenceless,_ Alice had snapped. _Are you telling me that, if it had been the other way round, you wouldn’t have let Lily take Neville in? Even though we’d agreed it?_

 _My dear,_ Dumbledore had said, and Remus had known he would not be moved. _The point is moot. Harry will remain with his aunt._

Remus had tried to be tactful when he wrote to Petunia. Yet the letters he sent by Muggle post came back marked _Not Known At This Address_ and the owls had returned ruffled and annoyed, still clutching his carefully worded notes.

The weather was better today, although clouds were building dangerously on the horizon. Once he had walked the stiffness out of his limbs, it was easy going, along the clear track through quiet woodland. The air tasted clean.

He tried, conscientiously, to think of happier times. That had been the whole point of coming up into the hills, hadn’t it?

He remembered Alice, in the kitchen of the Order headquarters, seven months pregnant and complaining of the heat.

 _Do you know what I’m going to do as soon as I drop this sprog?_ she had demanded.

Remus had shaken his head, though he’d heard it before.

Alice had grinned at him. _I’m going to have a fag. And it’s going to be beautiful._

 _Poor, neglected little Dulcinella_ , Remus had said, measuring out tea.

She had looked at him sideways. _If Andromeda Tonks thinks that being godmother will let her inflict her taste in names on my baby, she, and you, can go shag a Clabbert._

 _He’d better not shag a Clabbert without me,_ Sirius had remarked, wandering in. _Morning, Alice. Little Dionysius kicked you in the bladder yet today?_

He had still been snorting slugs out of his nose the next morning.

Remus had lunch in Charing, and then hurried on. He tried to think about the walk, and nothing else, and was surprised at how much faster he went. He arrived in the village of Lenham early enough to buy a razor, and find somewhere to stay the night. The village inn was more expensive than he would have liked, but he had barely spent any money in the last week. The luxuries of a bath and a shave and a warm bed for the night were worth the price.

  
 _Werre at his bigynnyng hath so greet an entryng and so large, that every wight may entre whan hym liketh, and lightly fynde werre; but certes what ende that shal therof bifalle, it is nat light to knowe. For soothly, whan that werre is ones bigonne, ther is ful many a child unborn of his mooder that shal sterve yong by cause of thilke werre, or elles lyve in sorwe and dye in wrecchednesse._  
\- Chaucer’s Tale of Melibee 

He woke to dim light, and the warm weight of the duvet. Drowsy and unsure where he was, he rolled over, seeking a warm shoulder to press his cheek against.

He was alone in the bed.

Then he remembered that everyone he loved was dead, or taken from him, and could sleep no more.

It was snowing outside, and he could barely see beyond the end of the road. There was a thin fur of it on the windowsill outside his room, and when he went downstairs the landlord was trying to thaw the milk and swearing at the smoking oven.

Remus fixed that with a surreptitious swish of his wand and asked whether he thought the road to Hollingbourne would be passable.

The landlord, a voluble Welshman, described the idea as a bloody slow way of committing suicide.

Remus protested but found himself overruled. Offered a free night’s stay in thanks for fixing the oven, he reluctantly agreed.

The landlord turned out to be a chess fiend. Remus had never been up to Peter’s standard but he could hold his own, even with pieces that didn’t move themselves. By lunchtime, he had heard all about Owen Davies’ past life as a taxi driver in Port Talbot and his decision to move south to be near his younger daughter and his widowed sister’s disapproval of the pub.

By dinnertime, the pub was filling up, and Remus was left to himself. He nursed his pint and watched people gather, groups forming and reforming with loud good humour.

It was a good pint, and it made him think of Frank Longbottom. Even Alice hadn’t understood Frank’s passion for real ales, though he had still tried to convert the rest of the Order. James had been the only other one who sympathised, though Remus suspected he had let the side down by asking what was wrong with Firewhiskey.

He remembered, too, how Frank could defuse a quarrel with a few quiet words. Only Sirius had refused to be soothed by him.

Last Christmas, when things were only beginning to fall apart, Frank and Alice had danced together at the Order’s Christmas party, faces bright with laughter. The babies were being passed around the room, and Professor McGonagall’s paper hat had slipped back and was dangling off her bun as she bounced Neville on her knee. Sirius and James had been busy charming the baubles on the Christmas tree to swear loudly every time someone walked past.

Moody had been waiting for him, after the November moon, sitting in the waiting room in the Werewolf Registry, making the clerks nervous.

Remus hadn’t expected to see him, and the dread had already been curling in his stomach when Moody had looked up and said simply, _The Longbottoms._

For a few days, when he could think past the overwhelming, still disconcerting shock, he had felt a strange sense of immortality. He would be next. With death inevitable, he had barely bothered to look twice when he crossed the road, or to concentrate when he Apparated.

Yet it was now seven weeks since Halloween, and he was still alive. He was beginning to understand that real life didn’t have such tidy endings.

He didn’t drink any more but merely stared out of the window, watching the snow falter and cease. After last orders, feeling guilty for his free stay, he helped Davies clear up, and then went upstairs to his empty bed.

  
 _He priketh thurgh a fair forest,  
Therinne is many a wilde best,  
Ye, both bukke and hare,  
And as he priketh north and est,  
I telle it yow, hym hadde almest  
Bitidde a sory care._  
\- Chaucer’s Tale of Sir Topaz

  
The next morning he set out into the snow with Owen Davies’ best wishes, and a sturdy rucksack full of food ( _I’m never going to be using it again, boyo, so don’t you argue with me_ ).

The snow was heavier than it had been for days, and by the time he got back to the top of the hill he was sweating. His breath huffed out in clouds, blurring the air before him. Suddenly he felt, with absolute certainty, that if he turned round Peter would be puffing up the hill behind him, refusing to take another step before he’d had a fag.

He didn’t turn round.

He didn’t want to think about Peter. If he did, he would have to think about what Peter had done, and if he thought about that, he would have to think about why Peter had done it.

How many times had he teased Peter for being afraid? Not as much as the other two, to be fair, but they were dead, or better off so, and his conscience must serve for them all.

It had been exasperation, he told himself. Nothing more. He would have erred on the side of caution himself, had he not been called upon to mediate between recklessness and fussiness, between Peter and-

This wasn’t getting him any further along the road.

The hills sloped steeply above the lane, and he found himself glad of the bushes along the verge. It gave him something to hold onto when his feet slipped out from under him.

A train moved along the valley, a slow, blue caterpillar, heading towards London. He saw it stop at the next village, and wondered how many passengers it carried and whether any of them looked up here, rather than down at their books and magazines.

By lunchtime, he had only got as far as the road down to the next village. He leant on the signpost and eyed the slope down. He’d never get back up again. No one was in sight, so he cast a warming charm and ate his sandwiches standing up. His feet were beginning to ache. His shoes, old and tatty enough to be comfortable, weren’t quite up for snow.

He muttered a charm at them anyway.

Why hadn’t Peter Flooed him? Why hadn’t he asked for help? If there had been two of them, they might have been able to stop it all – to find out what had gone so horribly, horribly wrong.

Peter probably hadn’t trusted him either, in the panic.

He’d probably been right. Remus probably wouldn’t have believed him, or been able to summon enough ruthlessness.

Would it have mattered? If he had gone, and failed, a dozen Muggles, and Peter, would still be alive. James and Lily weren’t going to come back just because the man who had betrayed them was locked away.

And that attitude was exactly why Peter hadn’t Flooed him.

Wasn’t _that_ something to be proud of? That Remus Lupin – can’t trust him not to be a traitor, can’t trust him if he isn’t. And everybody dies.

By the time he made it to the top of the ridge, his breath was catching in the back of his throat and his nails were biting into his palms, spikes of heat against his cold skin. He stopped to get his breath and looked down on the valley. The sky was beginning to darken again, and the snowy slopes seemed grey.

He’d always been the only one to appreciate a view. The others had always been too busy living to pause for a moment.

Just as well, really.

The blood was thrumming through his veins, and he couldn’t quite hold back his memories – couldn’t organise them into the boxes where they belonged. He willed the cold to sink into him, to numb everything so he wouldn’t look at grey skies and see wide eyes, or feel the wind brush his cheek and imagine it was fingers.

When his mind was blank again, he continued along the ridge towards the next village. The calm wouldn’t last long, not past the first dream of the night, but, for now, it would suffice.

  
 _Mordre wol out, certeyn, it wol nat faille_  
\- The Prioress’ Tale

He slept badly and spent an hour lingering in the village. The waiting room at the station had a battered heater, so he sat in there with a cup of tea, and a roll from the bakery, and watched the London trains go out. Christmas music was pumping out of the radio in the ticket office, and a limp strand of tinsel was dangling off the corner of the timetable board.

He passed the village hall on the way out of the village and heard the excited shouts of children through the windows. In the car park behind the hall, a man in a Santa suit was sitting in the front seat of a Volvo, fingering a packet of cigarettes wistfully.

Remus, who had been bullied into a similar chore last year, shot him a sympathetic smile, and kept walking.

It had been Lily’s idea, though Alice had backed her up. He’d tried his best to explain that he approved in principle, and, yes, a party for all the children would take everybody’s mind off things, no doubt of it. He just didn’t see why he had to be involved.

 _Somebody has to play Father Christmas_ , Alice had said firmly, bouncing Neville on her hip.

 _But small children don’t even like me!_ he’d protested. _Can’t you find someone they adore?_

Lily, who had obviously guessed precisely who he meant, had crossed her arms. _Sirius can’t do it. They’d all recognise him._

 _Arthur Weasley?_ he’d suggested. _Dumbledore – he’d love it. Peter – what’s wrong with Peter?_

He had lost the argument. The afternoon of the party had found him in the cloakroom of a Muggle church hall in Raynes Park, miserably aware that the padding of his costume was only secured by a few safety pins and a sticking charm. Bill Weasley, who had been, much to his indignation, sent along with his younger brothers, was leaning against the door into the hall, smirking.

 _Your beard’s crooked,_ he had said.

Remus had given him a sour look, and jerked it round. _Now what?_

 _Nym’s going to give us a signal._ He’d shuffled along so Remus could peer through the crack of the door. _She said she’d do something dramatic._

 _Oh, hell,_ Remus had muttered.

 _Father Christmas shouldn’t swear._

Remus had ignored him to gaze in at the chaos in the hall. On the far side, Lily had put up a barrier, and had been happily ensconced behind it with a rugful of babies. All else had been mayhem, unleashed in its purest form. There had been children running everywhere, all screeching and screaming. Most of them he’d never seen before, but he’d recognised the middle Weasley, who had seized hold of one end of a toy broom and had been locked into a vicious tug of war with a sturdy boy in a Puddlemere United shirt. A slightly larger Weasley had been pursuing a curly-haired girl back and forth across the hall, flapping his arms and roaring. A pink-cheeked toddler with an alarming resemblance to Amos Diggory had been quietly working his way around the edge of the hall, towards the table full of cakes.

In the midst of it all, Sirius had stood, waving his wand like a conductor’s baton, an identical red-haired toddler attached to each leg.

Remus pulled himself out of the memory, shaking. Damn it, damn it, why did all his thoughts come back to that man? By the time of that party Sirius – no, not Sirius, but Black – had already been betraying them to Voldemort.

He spent the rest of the day trying to think of anything that didn’t involve Sirius Black. By the time he got to Detling at lunchtime, he was mentally translating the lyrics of _Imagine_ into runes.

After lunch the path led him up into woodland again. The trees arched over him, branches crossing to enclose the path. In summer, it would have been green and close. Now it made him think of prison bars.

For a moment the wind rattling through the trees sounded like waves crashing on a pebbly shore. Remus had to clench his fists and drive his nails into his palm to make himself carry on.

By dusk he had worked through the entire oeuvre of the Beatles (including their solo careers to date but maintaining his pretence that _Wings_ had never existed), the Rolling Stones and Blondie (Peter had always done the best Debbie Harry, but Remus wasn’t going to let that stop him) and was butchering _Dancing Queen_ , rather hoarsely. He was quite relieved to settle into the village pub and soothe his throat with a pint.

The landlady, unfortunately, was sharp-eyed, and he was forced to depart with the others at last orders. The church, however, was quite comfortable, and the side-chapel was small enough that even his ineffectual warming charms made a difference.

He’d never been much good at managing a warming charm that would last all night. He’d always relied on Sirius’.

He’d have to learn now.

  
 _For to his herte it was a greet plesaunce.  
Thus been they knyt with eterne alliaunce,  
And ech of hem gan oother for t' assure  
Of bretherhede whil that hir lyf may dure._  
\- The Shipman’s Tale

His dreams were a jumble of ice-grey eyes and warm hands, angry voices and quick laughter. He woke shivering and shaking with some passion he couldn’t bear to define.

His warming charm had run out.

It was still dark outside, so he renewed it and stared up at the shadows. A dim light came through from a streetlight on the road, making everything faintly orange.

He didn’t want to be alone.

There was no one who would take him in for his own sake, rather than the Order’s. There was nowhere to go but back to London, to continue with his life as if it had never held Sirius Black, as if he had always been friendless and broken.

He closed his eyes, but it didn’t help.

At last a dim light signalled dawn, and he sat up long enough to put together a sandwich. Owen Davies had given him a knife and a small pot of strawberry jam, and he let the sweetness settle in his throat.

He hadn’t eaten strawberries for years. Sirius had been allergic to them, and it had been easier not to buy them than to deal with cleaning up so thoroughly after he’d eaten.

This coming summer, he would eat them until he was sick.

He was stiff when he did start moving. When he stepped out of the church he was shocked to find the village green swathed in fog.

He didn’t see any reason why it should stop him. If he got lost he could always Apparate back here.

He dug his book out of his bag and kept his finger in the page that showed the photocopied map.

He stomped along the snowy path, anger sending ripples of heat through his limbs as the cold air made him cough. When he reached an underpass under the main road, he glowered up at the only car that was passing. Bloody Muggles should try authentic travel one of these days. Nothing like having your balls freeze solid whilst walking, or risking leaving them behind when Apparating, or trying not to fall off a bloody motorbike which had not been designed to deal with fucking turbulence.

It wasn’t until he was under the road that he realised he was thinking about Sirius again.

He stopped dead.

Whichever way he looked, there was fog closing in the ends of the tunnel. A car rumbled overhead, shaking the ceiling.

What was the point of going forward, if he couldn’t leave his ghosts behind?

 _If you don’t know_ what _to do,_ James had said sagely once, after a few pints too many, _just do_ something.

Lily had rolled her eyes and said something rude, but they had all known what he meant.

Do something. Grand.

It was bloody cold down here. Better start walking again. That was something.

What a philosophy to live the rest of his life by. Do _something_.

His book, when he consulted it, told him that he was surrounded by ancient monuments. He couldn’t see them through the fog, and he wasn’t going to stop. He was doing something. He was walking the bloody Pilgrim’s Way, all the way to bloody Winchester, and that was _something._

As he came down from the hills, the fog began to lift, and he found himself in marshland, bleak and stinking. The shells of buildings rose from the marsh in places, and he could glimpse the stern, angular shapes of factories through the fog.

The snow was thin here, crusted over the marsh, half-hearted.

It suited his mood.

When he reached the river, his path ended. There were still the remains of a ferry port, but it was obvious that no ferry had crossed the Medway here for years. Annoyed, he began to follow the bank of the river north, looking for a bridge.

It was three-quarters of an hour before he hit the outskirts of Rochester. A main road crossed the river, and he scrambled up onto it, cursing his guidebook, the weather, the war.

Lorries rattled past him, disappearing into the fog on the other side of the river. He ignored them, hunching his shoulders into his coat.

The Sirius he had thought he knew would have lost his temper by now and Apparated them both back to London. He would have snarled and slammed his way around the flat whilst Remus snapped at him, and it would have ended with an exchange of shouting. Then one of them would have made tea, and the other would have gone out for a takeaway, and they would have spent a long night curled around each other, letting touch heal the wounds words left.

Remus kept walking.

That Sirius had never existed. It had a lie, a way for him to survive seven years in the wrong house. And when he left school, he had, like a snake, shed his Gryffindor skin, and followed his blood.

And none of them had noticed.

Sirius had killed Peter. Sirius had betrayed James and Lily. Sirius had been the spy. Sirius, who had so blatantly, so carefully, suspected him.

Because Sirius had suspected him, so had all the others.

And Remus had still loved him. He had tried so hard to convince him that he was still loyal, still true, still human. Nothing had worked, and now he knew why.

Sirius could have thrown suspicion on anyone. He could have hidden his own betrayal in any of a thousand ways. Yet he had chosen Remus.

It made sense, if you looked at it coldly. The easiest person to throw suspicion on was the one he knew best. It was easy to betray a lover, if you had the cruelty to do it.

Off the bridge now and back upriver. He couldn’t see the eastern bank. The fog hid the path he had walked before.

Perhaps there were kinder explanations. He refused to consider them. If there had been a point where Sirius really was a Gryffindor, where he really had loved Remus, there had been a point where he could have been saved.

Which would mean that Remus had missed the chance.

It was all his fault. However you looked at it – whether or not you believed Sirius had ever really turned his back on his family, it was Remus’ fault. If he hadn’t loved Sirius, it would not have been so easy for Sirius to sow distrust; to turn them all against each other. By loving Sirius, he had led to the destruction of them all.

He was on the outskirts of a small town now, some ugly industrial place with an ugly industrial name.

It was already mid-afternoon, and his stomach was clenching with hunger, so he stopped for the best part of an hour. He bought a paper, and hid behind it as he tackled a bowl of soup.

It was only a small town, but the streets were busy with shoppers. It made him think of London, which made him think of the flat, which made him feel sick.

Sirius had been so excited when he moved in. Had it really only been for the opportunity it offered?

He almost ran out of the town, along the main road and away from the marshes.

He stopped with the dusk, in a village that seemed to contain more warehouses than homes. He found an old church, padlocked shut, and broke into it carelessly. A plaque inside told him it had been deserted at the time of the Black Death. Somehow, that struck him as hilarious, and he laughed until he sank to his knees, choking into his cold palms.


	2. Chapter 2

_Togidres han thise thre hir trouthes plight  
To lyve and dyen ech of hem for oother,  
As though he were his owene ybore brother._  
\- The Pardoner’s Tale

The fog was still heavy the next day, but the ground rose steeply. He welcomed it and kept to a more temperate pace. He was aching again, as if all the passions of the previous day had marked his bones rather than his heart.

He didn’t want to think about anything at all – not Sirius, not betrayal, not loneliness. He tried to let the fog swamp his mind, turning everything grey and meaningless.

Was this how it felt in Azkaban? If so, perhaps they should send the survivors there.

Then, amongst the comforting numbness, he remembered Sirius, half-naked and laughing, pulling him down onto the bed, his breath hot on Remus’ shoulder.

He forced the image out, hating himself, but he couldn’t get the numbness back.

They had told him that Sirius had been laughing when they found him amongst the dead.

It didn’t surprise him. Everything Sirius had ever done had been done with passion. There would be no small betrayals for Sirius Black. It must be all or nothing.

Sirius had always been loud, demanding more with every breath, his head flung back so his hair spread across the pillows, his back arched, his hands rough and possessive.

It had all been lies.

It had to have been lies. There was no such man as Sirius Black, no ferocious, shameless, joyous man who loved and raged with the same intensity. That man would never have betrayed James Potter, would never have used the others’ distrust of werewolves conceal his own actions.

Those things had happened, indisputably and undeniably.

Therefore, that Sirius had never existed.

The conviction lasted until halfway through the lunch he had in the pub in Wrotham.

He was, without even thinking about it, guarding his chips from thieving fingers.

Nobody would ever steal his chips again.

He managed to shove away from the table and stumble into the Gents. There he barricaded himself into a cubicle and sagged onto the loo, pressing his hands to his face. He couldn’t muffle the sounds coming out of him, though, or stop himself from rocking forward, or keep the tears from smearing down his cheeks.

Oh, God, they were all dead, and _Sirius_ had done it.

He never knew how long he had spent there. When he finally made it back to his table, someone had cleared his plate away.

The woman behind the bar eyed him strangely as he walked out. He tried not to meet her eye.

It was already getting dark. He should stay here tonight.

He couldn’t. He had to move.

He stumbled along the path, across the side of the hills, squinting into the darkness as dusk deepened around him. It wasn’t until he fell that he admitted it was truly night.

There was still snow on the ground, cold around his fingers.

Had it been because of Regulus, who had died at the first frost? Had Sirius’ loyalties, always more passionate than sensible, driven him to finish what his brother could not? Had it been Lily, who had both claimed and endangered James? Had it been some misguided attempt to stop the war with some great gesture?

He got up slowly, and continued along the path, lighting up his wand so he could see the way ahead. To his right, the escarpment rose steeply towards the heights of the Downs. To his left were rolling fields. He could see lights on the horizon but nothing close by. He would have to walk until dawn, or turn back.

He walked on. The fog had cleared, and the moon had shrivelled towards new.

Would he be trying to understand for the rest of his life?

He had tried hard to convince himself that Sirius, too, was dead.

Sometimes he succeeded.

Much later, he heard bells, and followed the sound. There was a village before him, its roofs pale with a thin coating of snow. The church bells were ringing, and he could see light through the doors as he approached.

The warmth was tempting, and curiosity made him wonder why the villagers were not leaving their beds to complain.

The church was full. It wasn’t until he squeezed into one of the back pews, and looked around at the candles, that he realised what the day must be.

It was Christmas Eve, and the villagers had gathered for the midnight mass.

Remus immediately felt self-conscious. He wasn’t part of this community. He shouldn’t be here.

But it was warm, and no one was sending him angry scowls. He settled back into his corner, and enjoyed the singing.

He was tired enough that he forgot to cast a Disillusionment Charm at the end of the service. He was startled by the sound of the vicar clearing his throat.

“I’m afraid I have to lock the church now, my boy.”

“Oh,” Remus said, and stumbled up. “I’m sorry.”

The vicar smiled at him, kind and vague. “Are you staying in the village?”

Remus shrugged. “I – I don’t know. Where am I?”

“This is Kemsing,” the vicar said, concern washing over his face.

“I walked,” Remus said, feeling an explanation was due, and too tired for a plausible lie.

“From where?” the vicar asked. Everyone else had left, save for a plump, bustling woman who was putting the candles out and straightening the cassocks.

“Canterbury,” Remus said, and then tried to clarify things. “I mean, not today, but that’s where I started, you see. Today I only came a little way – there was a village with a plague church and I don’t know what it was called, and I’m sorry, I’d better go.”

“Alfred?” the bustling woman called. “Is something wrong?”

“Sit down, please,” the vicar said to Remus and went to speak to her.

Within half an hour he was installed in the guest room at the vicarage.

“But you don’t even _know_ me!” he had protested.

“Fiddle,” Mrs Hartridge had said. “It’s Christmas Day.”

Nobody in his world would ever have taken a stranger in so easily. It was another, peculiar, reminder that the Muggles hadn’t even realised there was a war.

It would be a strange world to live in.

 _Yif me my deeth, er that I have a shame_  
\- The Physician’s Tale

The Hartridges wouldn’t let him leave, so he trailed after them to church and then back to the vicarage.

Reverend Hartridge, who seemed to have convinced himself that Remus was an Oxford man, discussed Horace with him over dinner. Remus, whose entire knowledge of Latin literature came from Sirius’ classical education, nodded and ummed in what he hoped were the right places.

He escaped to help Mrs Hartridge with the washing up and was not entirely surprised to find himself thoroughly, and kindly, interrogated. He dodged as many questions as he could, and then changed the subject by complimenting her Christmas pudding.

That evening, when they finally slowed down, he overheard them talking in the kitchen.

“Nonsense,” Mrs Hartridge pronounced. “Of course he’s not English with a name like that. One of those terribly educated chaps who just sound that way. He’s from behind the Iron Curtain.”

Remus blinked. He was fairly certain he hadn’t told her anything of the sort.

“How terrible,” the vicar murmured.

“The poor boy’s lost everyone,” she said, crockery clinking as her voice moved away from the door. “Everyone, Alfred.”

That he couldn’t deny. He backed away from the kitchen and settled himself on the edge of one of the overstuffed armchairs, pretending to be asleep.

He spent the evening watching them through his eyelashes, and felt his heart clench at the easy affection between them. He had wanted that – the chance to grow old with Padfoot, bickering their way into happy ever after. But Sirius, Sirius who was never content, had destroyed even that unvoiced hope.

And here he was, dependent on the kindness of strangers.

 _Love is a thyng as any spirit free._  
\- The Franklin’s Tale

He didn’t manage to leave Kemsing, and the Hartridges, until mid-morning on St Stephen’s Day. There was fog again, though it was thinner, but the rest had changed something, and he set out more confidently.

The moon would be new tonight.

It had, obviously, always been his favourite time of the month. It had been sixth year before he realised why Sirius had always been so wild at the same time. He had assumed his happiness was merely infectious until the day in Sixth Year, when things were still tentative and wondrous between them, when Sirius had pushed him against the wall of the shower and given him the first blowjob of his life.

When he had slumped to the floor, gasping, Sirius had crawled up into his arms, smirking. _I like the way you smile when there’s no moon._

If he could have convinced himself that there were two Siriuses, that Regulus, who looked so like him, had stolen his identity and been the betrayer, then it might all have been easy.

But it had been that Sirius who sent Snape to the Shack, and that Sirius who had turned on him last spring, spitting accusations and obscenities.

Every time he thought he understood Sirius Black he had been proven wrong. He had put up with Sirius’ drinking, and his inability to perform a simple laundry charm, and his embarrassing crush on Stubby Boardman, and the stink of Padfoot after he hit the duck pond in St James Park. It had been nothing compared to his absolute certainty that he was loved. Sirius, though, hadn’t loved him enough to stay true.

At Otford he bought some more bread and then crossed the River Darent. He ended his day in St Botulph’s Church in Chevening. He lit a candle, and, for the first time, wished he’d brought another book. Smiling wryly at himself, he curled up to read his guidebook properly, wondering what lay ahead.

 _Agayn the swerd of wynter, keene and coold._  
\- The Squire’s Tale

He awoke from the sort of dreams he was rather embarrassed to be having in a church, and smiled dimly at the arched ceiling.

The moon was new, and he was miles from anyone who could force the truth on him. Today, he was going to lie to himself.

So, he wasn’t walking this path, in this season, because there was nothing of meaning in his life. He was – he was doing it for charity. That was right – to raise money to support the families of young lycanthropes. Sirius, who was alive and well in London, had sulked for weeks at the idea. Remus had pointed out that he could always come too, and barely ducked in time for _The Daily Prophet_ to miss his head.

He knew Sirius wasn’t really angry, though, because he’d been there at the full moon, before Remus started walking, and he’d come to Canterbury with him, and they’d squashed into the loo on the train and done things British Rail wouldn’t have approved of.

He lingered on that for a while, trying to force it into a real memory. It didn’t quite work – the only train he’d ever been debauched on was the Hogsmeade train, and that had been in a first class compartment, not the bog. All the same, it gave him enough material to be going on with, and he found it was suddenly uncomfortable to be walking.

He lent on a fence and looked down on Chevening Park, waiting for the cold to settle his blood.

Perhaps Sirius would surprise him tonight, by Apparating in just after dark, with a takeaway and a bottle of firewhiskey.

It was no good. The harder he tried the more the fantasy thinned, feeling weaker and tinnier by the moment. There was no getting round it.

Sirius Black was a traitor and a murderer and not worth loving.

 _"Wepyng and waylyng, care and oother sorwe  
I knowe ynogh, on even and a-morwe," _  
\- The Merchant’s Tale

When he left Titsey the next morning the air was full of a fine drizzle, which rapidly turned the remaining snow to slush. By mid-morning he was coated in chilly mud, and sick of muttering charms to avert the worst of the rain. Drizzle, he’d learnt long ago, could get through a spell that would hold a cloudburst off.

The mud made him think of Quidditch. He’d always enjoyed watching it and had rarely passed up a chance to mock James’ unwavering devotion to the Chudley Cannons. Playing Quidditch in winter, they had found out in their first year, involved a tremendous amount of mud for an airborne sport. When James and Sirius were feeling particularly enthusiastic, that mud had also been shared liberally with any unlucky spectators. He’d felt noisily, uproariously happy for the first time that year, stumbling back to the castle in a four-person, mud-smeared, stinking tangle of chaos.

Mud had meant spring moons, too, and Sirius spending hours in front of the mirror, bewailing what Padfoot’s love of oozing puddles had done to his hair.

 _You are just an enormous tit,_ Peter had said in awe, watching him from where he perched on the edge of his bed, nose twitching. _I’m surprised you don’t _have_ tits, that’s how much of a girl you are._

 _He’s definitely not a girl,_ Remus had always said mildly, just to see James and Pete splutter.

There had been mud on his boots the first time Sirius had slammed him against a wall and demanded, _Where the fuck were you, Moony?_

He’d been too shocked to reply, and Sirius had taken that as an answer, crashing out of the flat.

There had been apologies later, and sex, lots of sex, but by then, Remus thought, it was already too late.

Had Sirius already been working for Voldemort? Or had mistrust led him into one too many risks?

The path took him up onto the top of the escarpment. He could see the blur of towns in the rain-soaked valley below. He exposed his book to the rain long enough to discover that he had, unknowingly, passed out of Kent and into Surrey.

Well, then, that was progress, wasn’t it? Couldn’t deny that.

 _When this war is over…_ Sirius had mused once, stretched out on James’ lawn with his head pillowed on Remus’ thigh. _Then…_

 _What >_ Lily had asked, rubbing her swollen belly slowly.

Sirius had grinned at her. _Let’s take over the world._

Lily had considered it and nodded sharply. _Sounds good._

 _Oh, help_ James had murmured, and Remus had rolled his eyes and tangled his fingers into Sirius’ hair.

 _Travel round it anyway,_ he’d said, and they’d all mumbled approval, even Peter, who didn’t like any travelling that involved anti-tetanus potions.

His hostel that night was the church of Saint Peter and Saint Paul in Chaldon. Its back wall was covered with a vast medieval mural of the damned being tortured in hell. Remus stared at it as he chewed on his sandwiches and tried hard not to think about Azkaban.

 _And thogh youre grene youthe floure as yit,  
In crepeth age alwey, as stille as stoon,  
And deeth manaceth every age, and smyt  
In ech estaat, for ther escapeth noon;  
And al so certein as we knowe echoon  
That we shul deye, as uncerteyn we alle  
Been of that day whan deeth shal on us falle._  
\- The Clerk’s Tale

It wasn’t until he crossed the M25 motorway the next day that he wondered, treacherously, if Sirius might have had a good reason for everything he had done.

There could be no good reasons.

Yet every horrendous, friendship-breaking disaster Sirius had ever created had come from the same cause. Sirius would do anything to protect his friends, even if it meant destroying them in the process. He could send Severus Snape to face a werewolf to stop him murmuring about what the Dark Lord did to halfbloods and dark creatures.

If Sirius had, for example, fallen into Voldemort’s hands, and the Dark Lord had threatened to unleash Greyback and his pack to provoke the Wizarding World into a backlash against werewolves unless Sirius passed him information…

Remus shook himself and hurried on. He had _never_ feared that. He had always known that Sirius would rather die than be taken.

Besides, Sirius would always have chosen James.

Now, he doubted. What if it had been gradual? – a date and a place here, a name there. Sirius had never dealt well with being trapped.

He had asked it of Sirius, in the dark, small hours of the night, after the Prewetts died. _If we lose, and they come for me – if either side comes for me – kill me. Please, Padfoot._

Sirius had blustered and raged but promised. Then he had turned it round on Remus, and demanded the same promise in return. If his family came for him-

How had the man who hated with such passion gone back to them?

He put a shield charm up to keep the rain off and sat on the viewpoint on top of Reigate Hill to eat his lunch. Every explanation he could think of fell apart. Must he go back to the simplest one – that Sirius had been evil from the start?

If it was true, then he was a fool. He had believed that choice was more important than birth; that the future was not set in stone, that free will existed.

He had never quite believed in the mysterious prophecy Dumbledore refused to reveal to them. He had a sick feeling that might have been a terrible mistake.

The sandwiches were heavy on his tongue.

Sighing, he chucked the crusts under a bush and cancelled the charm. Then he headed down into the town.

He found a bookshop, and, because it appealed to his sense of humour, bought a paperback translation of _The Canterbury Tales_. He stuffed it into his rucksack, and went in search of a teashop and, slightly less urgently, somewhere pleasant to stay the night.

He ended up breaking into the Grammar School, which had a comfortable medical room. It was not New Year yet, and nobody would be paying any attention to the school. He found it vaguely unsettling - the smell of damp shoes and cheap perfume and must was almost familiar. Add a whiff of sulphur, or the sharp wooden scent of brooms, and it might have been homely.

At least he had something to read tonight. He’d never managed to read any Chaucer before – his tastes ran more to the modern, either moody thrillers or the sort of tightly written, self-referential novels that Sirius had felt a need to shout at every time he tried to read them in the bath.

Bastard always gave them back with soggy spines.

Hell. He wasn’t supposed to think of Sirius like that – not fondly. He could hate him, or wish him out of existence, or, if he was weak, forgive him. He wasn’t allowed to miss him.

He turned stubbornly to the book. The introduction, dry enough to lull him to sleep, told him that today was the anniversary of Thomas à Becket’s martyrdom. He put the book down and thought of Canterbury, and the road through the hills, and a troublesome, turbulent priest cut down in error. The over-eager murderers had died too, hadn’t they? He wondered who had been the last one standing, the one who mourned them all.

 _Be war from Ire that in thy bosom slepeth;  
War fro the serpent that so slily crepeth  
Under the gras and styngeth subtilly_  
\- The Summoner’s Tale

It was wet again, and for the first hour his path along the hilltops was so muddy and overgrown he couldn’t worry about anything but hacking and hexing his way through. He came out onto an open hillside red-faced and hot.

He followed the path round onto the very crest of the hill.

He missed talking. He missed company. He missed the warm presence of someone else sleeping beside him. He missed sharing the shower because they’d forgotten to put the hot water on, and finding out there was no cereal in the cupboard or milk in the fridge, and dog hair on the sofa, and realising halfway through the day that the robes he was wearing weren’t actually his.

He missed _Sirius._

There was no such person.

How could you miss someone who was just made up, just a mixture of deception and wilful fantasy? How could you miss them so much that your throat burnt and your hands shook and your heart was like a knot behind your ribs?

It wasn’t logical.

It wasn’t fair.

He laughed aloud at that. He’d learnt a long time ago that fairness was an illusion.

The hillside around him was jagged with quarries cut into the chalk. They gleamed milkily under the wash of the rain.

He scrambled down into one at lunchtime, sheltering under an overhang. It was full of abandoned kilns and an unlabelled collection of small steam trains.

Sirius would have been examining them by now, heedless of the rain. He had always indignantly denied the charge of being a trainspotter, but anything with an engine had drawn him like a magnet.

If Sirius had not betrayed them, they would never have come here. Either way, Sirius would never have seen these machines.

There were so many things they would never do. They had made lists, in the earliest of the dark days, before words became weapons: climb Snowdon, see the Northern Lights, go to Moscow and Shangri-La, watch Harry’s first Quidditch match, get hammered at Dumbledore’s retirement party, and at Nymphadora’s wedding, and Neville’s passing out from the Auror College, and James and Lilys’ golden wedding ( _I see we’re just going to be drunk for the rest of our lives, Padfoot_ ), fly to the Caribbean on Marianne( _Of course it’s safe, Moony – we’re wizards_ ), learn what the fuck cricket was about.

Remus supposed there was nothing to stop him doing most of those things. He wondered if James and Lily and Peter had had lists of their own, and whether he ought to guess what was on them. It could keep him busy for years, keeping up with other people’s dreams.

Sighing, he heaved to his feet and carried on. He wanted to make it to Dorking by evening.

The afternoon took him across the lower slopes of Box Hill. He could look down through the dark spars of the trees to the valley, where the River Mole, swollen with melted snow, rushed between brown fields. There was a barn in the field below, and he could see the line of a lane running towards the railway. It was bleak, and empty, and he wasn’t sure if he hated it more than it called to him.

He kept walking, aware of the great hill looming above him, solid and implacable. He imagined in summer it was green and glorious, the leaves of the trees rustling invitingly, casting golden light onto the rides. Now, it is harsh, and simple, and incomprehensible.

It reminded him of Dumbledore.

At the foot of the hill a row of stepping stones crossed the river. They were barely visible above the brown water, so he wandered along to a bridge. He’d never been very good at taking risks, though he understood the appeal of it, that hot bloom of danger.

Dorking, when he reached the main street, was a sleepy town with a lengthy high street. Spoilt for choice between a church, a town hall, a library and a music hall, Remus decided not to risk the library’s security system and bedded down in the prop room of the music hall on a tattered four-poster that reminded him strongly of the one in the Shrieking Shack.

 _"Brother," quod he, "fer in the north contree,  
Whereas I hope som tyme I shal thee see.  
Er we departe, I shal thee so wel wisse  
That of myn hous ne shaltow nevere mysse."_  
\- The Friar’s Tale

That night he dreamt of Azkaban.

It was an old dream; one he had been having since he was fourteen. He had always known that there was a chance he would be confined there, if Voldemort decided to unleash his pack and scare the Ministry into countermeasures. There had been times when he lay awake, waiting for the tramp of boots in the street or the pop of Apparition in the hall.

The dream was always the same – low stone corridors and the cold leeching at him. He rarely saw a dementor in his dreams, but he always heard them, their breaths rattling behind him.

Sirius was there. Sirius who was all passion, who understood love and hate and loathing and violence but had never faced the slow, grey leech of despair.

When Remus thought of it, which he could not do for long, he imagined Sirius fading, his gleaming hair falling into grey strands, his eyes dimming to the colour of clouds on a dull day, the pink of his lips paling into white, his olive skin becoming parchment.

He could not imagine a Sirius who did not laugh and rage. He could not imagine Sirius silenced.

Sirius Black would grow old in Azkaban. He would die in Azkaban, when he finally lost the will to live.

Remus thought on the Sirius he had known, and was afraid, deeply, coldly afraid, that it would take long years.

His feet carried him along the path, over hill and heath, as he fought to decide what he resented most.

Was it just, even given what Sirius had done? Surely there were cleaner ways?

Twenty-five people were dead.

The Dark Arts of Azkaban would not bring them back.

He found a car park at lunchtime, and an elderly couple, armed with binoculars and thermos flasks, let him sit in the back of their Reliant Robin and eat his sandwiches while they told him all about their ornithology society.

After lunch, he thanked them politely and hurried on through the woodland. This, at least, felt more like a forest, dense and steep.

Sirius had not had a trial. At the time, he had been almost thankful. It would have been a formality, and everything precious about all of their lives would have been torn apart in court for the vultures of the media. He had been aware that Andromeda Tonks had raged at the decision, but he had been too lost to support her.

Now he wondered. It would, at least, been a chance for Sirius to explain. Now he would never know what had driven him to that point. They would not trust Remus past the gates of Azkaban, not until the personal loyalties of this era had faded to mere statistics.

Peter had once spent a month hunched over plans of the jail, trying to work out how they would rescue Remus if it did all go wrong. He had eventually concluded, miserably, that it was impossible to get out, even for them.

Remus had patted him awkwardly on the shoulder and thanked him for trying.

He reached Gomshall at dusk and was surprised to find the pub full until he realised it was New Year’s Eve. He crowded himself into a corner, surrounded by merry strangers. At last orders, the landlord pulled down the hatch over the bar and came round to join the revellers.

Just before midnight, he slipped out into the cold night.

At midnight, he heard the church bells begin to ring, and drunken voices slurred into a barely recognisable version of _Auld Lang Syne_. Remus looked up at the moon, a narrow sliver in the cold heights of the sky, and murmured, “1982.”

At least he could be sure it couldn’t be any worse than 1981.

 _But conseillyng is no comandement.  
He putte it in oure owene juggement._  
\- The Wife of Bath’s Tale

He wasn’t the only one to wake in the pub the next morning, and the landlord booted them out with cheerful admonitions. Remus ambled along in the midst of them, accepted on the merits of a shared hangover. One by one they turned off into side streets until only he continued along the path west.

His path was an easy stroll through the woods, and he let his thoughts settle, as quietly as the sigh of the rain.

He could not excise Sirius Black from his memories. Sirius was Sirius. He never had made things easy for Remus.

There was not much he could do to make sense of it. Once upon a time he had loved a man called Sirius Black, who had not been strong enough to defeat his own demons. In a way, Remus thought, it hadn’t been Sirius who made that final, unforgivable choice. It had been generations of Blacks, their genes and attitudes and expectations too much to fight off for any length of time.

It wasn’t an ideal solution, but he could live with it.

When he reached Guildford, all the shops were shutting early, as it was a bank holiday. He wandered up the cobbled High Street, past the glittering Christmas lights and the Sale posters. He followed a sign through the Tunsgate, and up a slope to the Castle Gardens.

The old moat was now lined with empty flowerbeds. He ignored them to climb towards the ruined keep, which loomed against the greying sky.

At the foot of the keep, surveying the approaches, he found Alastor Moody waiting.

“You coming back?” Moody demanded, without looking at him.

Remus leant on a ruined wall and gazed out towards the hills he had walked across, considering.

“Soon,” he said.

Moody grunted but clapped him on the shoulder. “Full moon’s a week on Saturday. I’ll expect you when it’s over.”

Remus, who could lose track of the day of the week but never the pull of the moon, nodded, and stayed where he was until the faint pop of Apparition told him he was alone.

A short wander through the lower levels of the town let him find a YMCA hostel on the riverbank.

He didn’t dream as badly that night.

 _But litel while it lasteth, I yow heete,  
Joye of this world, for tyme wol nat abyde;  
Fro day to nyght it changeth as the tyde._  
The Man of Law’s Tale

The next morning found him scrambling up the Hogsback, under the shadow of the red-brick cathedral. He found the path again on the far side of the hill and began to follow it along the side of the ridge.

So, he still had a job to go back to. That should fill a few days, even if almost everyone he had worked with was gone. He couldn’t quite imagine Auror HQ without Alice’s husky laugh or Sirius glowering at the next desk.

He’d always enjoyed the work – not just the glory-seeking chases and clashes but hunting the trail of information through paperwork and spell echoes. He suspected and hoped that there would be more of the latter than the former now the war was over.

The war was over.

Was it worth the price?

He struggled with that all the way through Compton and Puttenham. It wasn’t until he was settled in the church of St Lawrence in Seale that night that he realised it didn’t matter. The Wizarding World had been saved, and his losses, devastating as they were, meant nothing in comparison to that. There was no point raging against fate. The world wasn’t fair. If Voldemort had won that night, they would all still be dead, and many others beside.

There was no more Dark Lord threatening the world. There was only chance and free will. He could not bring them back. All he had to do was work out how to survive without them.

 _Wel bet is roten appul out of hoord  
Than that it rotie al the remenaunt_  
\- The Cook’s Tale

The first stage of living without Sirius Black, he decided, would involve dealing with the flat. He wasn’t even sure if he had any right to be living there. Had Sirius left a will? Would Gringotts treat a life sentence in Azkaban as death or would they freeze his accounts and expel his lodger. Would they-

He found himself choking.

It took minutes of blind walking before he could think clearly again. Fine. The real first stage of living without Sirius Black would be to find a way around this ridiculous emotionalism.

Then, and only then, could he deal with the flat, the belongings heaped across it, the bills piling up on the mat and all the other dreary, everyday things that were necessary and meaningless and ensured that life went on.

Sirius had always hated that phrase. It emerged at every funeral, said wryly or bitterly or hopefully. Every time Sirius would explode as soon as they were out of earshot, raging along greensward or gravel paths.

Remus had never minded it. It was rather comforting. Even Voldemort couldn’t destroy everything. Even nuclear bombs couldn’t wipe out cockroaches. Life went on.

He came down off the Hogsback into the genteel little town of Farnham, with its Georgian architecture and meticulously preserved castle. It was the least Sirius place he had ever seen, so he stopped for a cup of tea, in hope of inspiration.

Tea, he supposed, was an answer of sorts. Plenty of tea, a touch of stubbornness, and a refusal to let anyone help, and he should get the job done.

He wouldn’t throw it away, though. Sirius’ Gringott’s vault was a healthy size. It could all be stored there, in case – in case-

In case Harry ever wanted any of it (assuming Petunia ever let down her guard, that was). The boy was Sirius’ godson and probably his heir. Remus was almost certain that if Sirius had changed his will in the last few months, it had been to cut him out.

It could even have been a considerate gesture, in Sirius’ terms, to avert suspicion from him.

Following the directions out of Farnham, he was delighted to discover that he had left the hills behind. They still rose around him, but now he walked along the banks of the Wey, out of Surrey and into Hampshire. He watched the drizzle dapple the water and began to believe, really believe, that the world had not ended at Halloween.

He ended the day in Upper Froyle, in yet another church. He was beginning to look forward to the time when he could sleep in a bed again.

 _Thanne were ther yonge povre scolers two,  
That dwelten in this halle, of which I seye.  
Testif they were, and lusty for to pleye,  
And, oonly for hire myrthe and revelrye_  
\- The Reeve’s Tale

As he continued along the riverbank, the temperature began to drop again. Remus dug his gloves back out of his bag and drew them on gently. Lily had taken up knitting when they first went into hiding. The gloves, along with a scarf for Sirius and a rather lurid tea-cosy, had arrived with a pithy note on cabin fever and James’ complete inability to change a nappy.

He probably wouldn’t ever have friends again, not true, loyal to the death friends. Acquaintances were easier and left less scars. He would leave great passions behind him. Wartime made everything more intense. Now the war was over there would be no need for such things.

Life went on, and he would go with it.

In Alton he remembered that he had never posted the card to Hagrid and stuck it in a postbox. He then bought another one and sent it to the entire Weasley family.

There, that was a positive move towards acquiring acquaintances, even if Molly Weasley did faintly terrify him.

He bought a bun, and wandered onwards, feeling vaguely superior. He would survive. It was possible.

It wasn’t until he was on the opposite edge of town that he realised no one would ever call him Moony again.

Well, it was a _stupid_ name, he thought viciously. _Stupid, obvious and immature._

 _Well, you see, you do, don’t you?_ Peter had said breathily. _Y’know, like we call you Moony ‘cause it’s a sort of crossword clue type of a name-_

 _Get on with it!_ Sirius had snapped, bouncing on his toes.

 _Well, I’m Wormtail, see, on account of being a rat, and Sirius is Padfoot ‘cause that’s some sort of weird breed of Grim, and James is Prongs, because he has ‘em, and, well, yeah._

 _Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs_ James had said dreamily.

 _Solemnly swear,_ Sirius had continued and then hesitated.

 _That they are up to no good?_ Remus had suggested dryly, only to be floored by an overjoyed black dog.

Now he stood still, staring blindly at the faint smoke from a chimney in the distance. He would remember, even if no one else did, and the Map was still at Hogwarts somewhere, after all. He’d worried about that a little, but now the war was over it was nothing more than a beautifully designed piece of mischief (even if he did say so himself).

He ended the day at Chawton, where the village shop was better stocked with copies of _Pride and Prejudice_ than bread and jam. The shopkeeper told him, rudely, to come back in the morning after she’d had her delivery.

He avoided the _Greyfriar_ pub because the robed figure on the sign made him think of dementors. This church was St Nicholas’. Remus, curling up in a pew with his book, wondered if there were a patron saint of bereaved, tea-loving werewolves, and, if so, whether he had unknowingly stayed in their church along the way.

 _And thus this sweete clerk his tyme spente  
After his freendes fyndyng and his rente._  
\- The Miller’s Tale 

Money was going to be a problem, Remus decided as he swung along the quiet lane, his breath pluming before him. He had always been scrupulous about sharing the bills, but there was no denying that it worked out better value for two people to live together than one alone. He didn’t have a handy legacy to deal with defunct kettles and broken furniture.

Of course, he wouldn’t be boiling cockroach clusters in the kettle either, so it should last longer.

The sky was clear, and a glittering frost had settled on every twig and cobweb. It was getting colder by the hour, but the bright winter sun was worth the chill.

All he needed now was a dog.

Damn.

He went back to whistling to keep his mind busy.

It was 1982. Wasn’t that grand? After 1982 would come 1983 and then 1984 and 1985 and so on until he popped his clogs sometime around the turn of the next century. All those years without a war – or without his war, anyway. They’d just keep going, and he’d keep going with them.

Sirius would still be in Azkaban through all those years. James, Peter and Lily would still be dead.

Hell.

It was too cold to cry, and he was a grown man and a werewolf. He should be used to pain.

He just didn’t want to be so very alone.

The hint of a good mood died again, and he continued wearily along the track. He wasn’t hungry enough to stop for lunch, but when he finally reached Ropley Dean he found he couldn’t make sandwiches fast enough to satisfy his hunger.

 _Yow loveres axe I now this questioun:  
Who hath the worse, Arcite or Palamoun?  
That oon may seen his lady day by day,  
But in prison he moot dwelle alway;  
That oother wher hym list may ride or go,  
But seen his lady shal he nevere mo._  
\- The Knight’s Tale

It was colder still the next day, and when he stopped to buy a cheap cup of tea the radio was predicting more blizzards by the end of the week.

It wouldn’t matter. He would be in Winchester by then.

How strange. He had begun to think he would be wandering the winter hills forever. Eventually he would have become a legend – the wild man of the North Downs, who stole into villages to beg for a good cup of Earl Grey and some whiskey for his imaginary dog.

He made his way slowly down into Alresford, where he spent an hour watching the steam trains and cradling another cup of tea. What was the rush? He would be in Winchester tomorrow.

Then there would be the moon, and then he would go back to work, as if this month had never happened, as if there had never been a man called Sirius Black, or a Dark Lord trying to destroy them all. He would just be that sickly Auror in the corner cubicle whose robes were always neatly patched. He would put his sickles in the milk tin and the biscuit fund and always end up drawing Belgium in the Quidditch World Cup sweepstake. After a few years, when he’d saved up enough, he might do a bit of travelling. Moscow, say, or Tibet.

Eventually, like all old Aurors, he would fade away.

Once upon a time he had been a Marauder.

Now all the Marauders were dead, and it was time to grow up.

He wished he understood why the very idea made him feel so desolate. Shrugging, he tossed his cup into the bin and headed out into the cold once more.

 _Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth  
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth  
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne  
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,  
And smale foweles maken melodye,  
That slepen al the nyght with open eye-  
(So priketh hem Nature in hir corages);  
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages_  
\- The General Prologue of The Canterbury Tales

At eleven the next morning he caught his first glimpse of the spire of Winchester Cathedral rising over the marshes of the Itchen valley. He stopped, as long ago pilgrims might have done, and smiled.

He would be awarded no badge to wear upon his cap, but the deed was done, and it was his, as nothing had been his alone for many a year. Admittedly, the kindness of strangers had helped him along the way, but his own feet had carried him, and his own will had driven him forward.

He would spend tomorrow in Winchester. The next day he would return to the Ministry, for the moon. For the first time in his life he almost welcomed it. The moon, whatever Shakespeare claimed, was constant. This one would be followed, in time, by the next and the next and the next.

The moon alone bound him. The age of prophecy was over, and the future lay before him, and his world, to shape as they could.

He would never forget. Love left its own traces, fainter and deeper than scars.

The path lay before him, however, and, with a faint smile, Remus Lupin continued on his way to Winchester, along the Pilgrim’s Way.


End file.
